


Everything Has Got a Little Price

by CautionaryTales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gunshot Wounds, and causes his own downfall, basically thenardier is an asshole, warnings for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:53:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CautionaryTales/pseuds/CautionaryTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the following prompt sent to me any an anon:<br/>"Please come get me."  Thenardiers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Has Got a Little Price

**Author's Note:**

> This was a very interesting prompt to explore, thanks for sending it to me. :) Thank you to sovinly who is an absolutely phenomenal beta, and to walkerssmonroe who helped me flesh out the idea behind this piece. 
> 
> Warning for a gunshot wound that isn’t described in detail, although the pain it causes is outlined a few time. Implied character death.

A shot goes off and his shoulder is pinned to the wall, agony ripping through his muscles and spidering from the point of impact.  His chest shudders as shock registers in his brain and he hears a distant scream echo through the room he's standing in.  He knows that the shout was his, felt the vibrations carry through his throat and rip through clenched teeth.  

His assailant laughs as he slides down the wall, and she begins to walk toward him, her heels clicking loudly on the tile floor.  It feels cold from where he's now lying sprawled, his hand grasping for purchase on the side-table next to him.  

The woman hooks her gun under his chin and forces his face up to meet her sickly grin.  

"You really didn't think that you could steal from me, did you?" she purrs at him, lifting her weapon to lightly slap his cheek.  

He hisses as the motion jostles his shoulder before taking a deep breath and spitting on her bright red shoes.  "Fuck you."

"Now don't be like that, you would have done the same if I broke into your house.  Well, that is, if you could afford one.  That shitty little motel of yours doesn’t quite measure up, does it, love?"

"Shut up," he grits out.  

Glancing at the clock, he guesses that he probably has about half an hour until he won't be able to get himself out of here.  Even now, he can feel as pain leeches energy from his body, leaving exhaustion in its wake.  Perhaps it won’t take as long for him to lose consciousness.  He can feel the wetness of his shirt where it’s clinging to his shoulder.  How much blood has he lost already?  It’s not a large wound, and the bullet should be stopping some of the flow.  His eyes dart back toward the time and he squints in concentration, trying to remember how long it’s been since he was shot.  It must be at least five minutes?  No longer than ten?  Time seems to warp as he attempts to grasp it, and he lets himself slump back into the conversation as he hears the woman’s voice ring clear in the room.

"But this," she continues as though he hadn't said anything, amusement playing at the edges of her tone, "this... trinket; I don't know why you've gone to such measures to get it back.  You stole it from my client... What?  Thirty five years ago?  And now I stole it from you, fair and square."

"It's important to me."

"As it is to me.  His son wanted it back, and you of all people should know that there's no honor amongst thieves unless they pay," she tutts at him.  "Anyway, it's just a ring, not worth much now, I reckon, dented as it is."

He closes his eyes and breathes through the jolt that rushes through his body when he shifts upright, letting a slow smile work its way across his face.  “Well now, why would you want something like that?  Tell you what, be a dear and give me the ring, and I’ll pay you enough to buy a nice, new one for that client of yours.  Get him something pretty and maybe he’ll give you something in return, yes?  What do you say?”

"If my client wants this piece of shit, I’m not going to question it.  With the kind of money he’s paying me, he could afford plenty of jewellery.  He insisted on this one, and I still don't see why it's so special to _you_."

Shaking his head, he turns away from the woman.

"Come now," she chastises.  "If you tell me, I might even let you out of here alive."

"Why?"  He's suspicious now, he knows her and this woman is not one to show mercy.

"I'm feeling curious tonight, but I'd warn you not to test me."

 _Ah, it's all a game to her_ , he thinks.   _My life is a game and she's just given me an ace.  Why not?_

He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping away the sweat that is dripping into his eyes.  "It was my wife's wedding ring, the one I proposed to her with."

"Why am I not surprised that you gave her a stolen ring?  Typical of you, Thenardier."

He flinches.  Even though the statement is incredibly accurate considering his tendencies, it still hurts.   Thenardier can't help the way that his eyes flick to the small burlap sack that is sitting on the side-table just beside him, the bag that holds the ring.  It's only feet away, but he knows that if he tries to reach for it, the woman will put a bullet through his skull without a second thought.  

"Well, this has been entertaining, to say the least."  The woman mock-salutes him with her gun and reaches forward.  "I'll be taking this for safe-keeping."  Pocketing the little bag, she doesn't spare Thenardier a second glance before treading back toward the only door to the room.  "I hope for your sake that our paths never cross again."

The door clicks shut softly and Thenardier lets his head fall back against the wall with a thump.  It takes a few minutes of groping around in his left pocket, but he manages to reach it with his good arm, having to twist his body to shift closer to grasp it.  He turns the screen on and immediately starts flipping through his contacts.

 _Babet._  Jail.

 _Brujon._  Jail

 _Claquesous_.  Jail.

 _Eponine._  She would never pick up, they haven't talked in years.

 _Montparnasse_.  Hmm...

Thenardier taps the "call" button and waits for the ringing to start.  The only sound he hears is a calm, female voice telling him that the number has been disconnected.  If he gets out of here alive, Thenardier will make sure to have a conversation with 'Parnasse about paying his fucking phonebills on time.

_Madame._

...

...

Biting his lip, Thenardier presses the little green button on the screen and begins counting rings.

"What do you want?" is the greeting that he receives.

"Hear me out," he starts, knowing that the likelihood that his wife will hang up on him increases exponentially the longer he speaks.  "I've found myself in a spot of trouble and- ah- need you to pick me up."

"Like hell I will," Mme Thenardier snarls.  "I told you once and I'll say it again, I don't want to have anything more to do with your thievery.  I want an honest life now."

"Please-"

"No.  You drove our daughters away, lost the inn we bought together, bought this godforsaken motel without talking to me first, and, the icing on the cake, I find out that our wedding rings were stolen from some bourgeois soldier.  I'll have none of it."

Thenardier opens his mouth to speak and a cough falls out instead, his hand flies up in instinct as more wheezing wracks his body.  When he takes his fingers away from his lips, they're speckled with blood, and he tastes metal in his mouth.  

"I'm sorry, but it's the way I am, you know what I'm like; I had no idea that he had a son, that he'd remember my name.  I need you-"

His wife cuts him off again, venemous.  "Oh, you need me?  And what about all the times I needed you and you were too busy robbing people, or counting your money?  What about them?"

"This is serious."

"So am I."

Thenardier's shoulder is beginning to feel numb, which he should be thankful for, but the pain is bone-deep now and there's no escaping it.  Closing his eyes, he lets tears runs down his cheeks, but just manages to stifle a sob as it tightens his chest in warning.  

"Please come get me," he whispers.

The last thing Thenardier hears before his own blood chokes in his throat is the monotonous dial tone playing loss from the earpiece still balanced on his good shoulder.  He has lost the only thing he ever truly loved in this world, and only just has time enough to wonder whether she'll ever know to grieve. 

**Author's Note:**

> I received four more prompts that are similar to this one, with different pairings. I will be posting them all soon; two are Enjolras/Grantaire, one is Courferre, and the last one is Stucky.


End file.
